you could bleed to death in Panama City,” he said, switching the conversation to Spanish. The girl didn’t need to hear this. She looked like the slightest thing could push her over the edge.
“There’s a clinic just a couple of miles from here,” Kid said, as if that made everything okay.
Bullshit.
“You need a hospital.”
“There’s a doctor at the clinic, and he’s not going anywhere until I get there. Your guys made sure of it.”
“Then why the hell aren’t you at the clinic?” Smith didn’t take kindly to losing partners.
“Because I’ve been waiting for you to take over the security detail.”
Oh, hell. His gaze slid to the woman again.
“No way,” he said. The DEA guys downstairs had filled him in on the situation, and he wasn’t going to miss out on potentially the biggest bust of the century to babysit some girl—not even a drop-dead-beautiful one.
“You’re the only one I trust to get her home. There’s a commercial flight out of Tocumen International in two hours. They’ve guaranteed us two seats, first-class. You came in at Albrook, right?”
“Yeah.” But so what? He wasn’t the one who needed to get his ass out of Panama.
“Here.” Kid pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. “I’ve already called.”
Smith looked down and read what was on the paper:
738 Steele Street, Denver, Colorado.
A code was scrawled across the bottom.
He knew what it was, Superman’s private home address, and home of the Shadow, Dylan Hart, a guy buried so deep, Smith didn’t know anyone who had ever worked with him, or anyone who would recognize him if they saw him, except for Kid and the other guys from SDF, a special operations team notorious for their unorthodox methods and high success rate. Seven thirty-eight Steele Street had resurrected General Buck Grant’s career. It was where they made guys like Kid Chaos Chronopolous.
“There’s a girl at SDF, at the Steele Street address, Skeeter Bang—”
“Skeeter Bang?” he interrupted. “You’re kidding, right?”
“No.” Kid shook his head. “She runs things for SDF. Make sure she knows to keep Nikki at Steele Street, and tell Nikki to stay put until I get there. I don’t want her out of Skeeter’s sight until we know for sure who was behind tonight’s attack.”
Nothing tricky there. It was all standard operating procedure. It just wasn’t his SOP, a fact sent doubly home when he glanced at Nikki McKinney.
Okay. This wasn’t good.
She’d gotten this look on her face like she was going to burst into tears any second, and he meant
any
second, which was just the sort of thing he took pains to avoid.
Great pains. C. Smith Rydell and crying women were like oil and water. They didn’t mix, not even if you shook them, and he’d definitely gotten shook up with a few—more than a few, actually. Certainly enough to know this one didn’t want a thing to do with him, enough to know the only person who had a prayer of getting her to Denver without her falling apart was Kid Chaos, the guy she was looking at as if her life depended on it.
He glanced back at Kid, but his partner looked ready to bolt.
Christ.
C. Smith nodded in the girl’s direction. “You need to be the one taking her out of here,” he said, continuing in Spanish and pocketing the damn piece of paper. Not that he was going to need it. No way in hell.
“No,” Kid insisted. “I need to get patched up, go back to the house, see what I can find. These guys are after me, and I need to do something about it.”
All true, but Smith wasn’t buying it. The look on his face must have said as much.
“Okay,” Kid gave in, his voice lowering, even though he stuck with Spanish. “I need a break.” He glanced at the woman. “She’s . . . she’s—”
“Hot,” Smith supplied.
“Screw you,” Kid said, barely managing a grin, which quickly faded. “She’s engaged.”
“You told me that weeks ago.”
“Yeah, well, things happened
“There’s a clinic just a couple of miles from here,” Kid said, as if that made everything okay.
Bullshit.
“You need a hospital.”
“There’s a doctor at the clinic, and he’s not going anywhere until I get there. Your guys made sure of it.”
“Then why the hell aren’t you at the clinic?” Smith didn’t take kindly to losing partners.
“Because I’ve been waiting for you to take over the security detail.”
Oh, hell. His gaze slid to the woman again.
“No way,” he said. The DEA guys downstairs had filled him in on the situation, and he wasn’t going to miss out on potentially the biggest bust of the century to babysit some girl—not even a drop-dead-beautiful one.
“You’re the only one I trust to get her home. There’s a commercial flight out of Tocumen International in two hours. They’ve guaranteed us two seats, first-class. You came in at Albrook, right?”
“Yeah.” But so what? He wasn’t the one who needed to get his ass out of Panama.
“Here.” Kid pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. “I’ve already called.”
Smith looked down and read what was on the paper:
738 Steele Street, Denver, Colorado.
A code was scrawled across the bottom.
He knew what it was, Superman’s private home address, and home of the Shadow, Dylan Hart, a guy buried so deep, Smith didn’t know anyone who had ever worked with him, or anyone who would recognize him if they saw him, except for Kid and the other guys from SDF, a special operations team notorious for their unorthodox methods and high success rate. Seven thirty-eight Steele Street had resurrected General Buck Grant’s career. It was where they made guys like Kid Chaos Chronopolous.
“There’s a girl at SDF, at the Steele Street address, Skeeter Bang—”
“Skeeter Bang?” he interrupted. “You’re kidding, right?”
“No.” Kid shook his head. “She runs things for SDF. Make sure she knows to keep Nikki at Steele Street, and tell Nikki to stay put until I get there. I don’t want her out of Skeeter’s sight until we know for sure who was behind tonight’s attack.”
Nothing tricky there. It was all standard operating procedure. It just wasn’t his SOP, a fact sent doubly home when he glanced at Nikki McKinney.
Okay. This wasn’t good.
She’d gotten this look on her face like she was going to burst into tears any second, and he meant
any
second, which was just the sort of thing he took pains to avoid.
Great pains. C. Smith Rydell and crying women were like oil and water. They didn’t mix, not even if you shook them, and he’d definitely gotten shook up with a few—more than a few, actually. Certainly enough to know this one didn’t want a thing to do with him, enough to know the only person who had a prayer of getting her to Denver without her falling apart was Kid Chaos, the guy she was looking at as if her life depended on it.
He glanced back at Kid, but his partner looked ready to bolt.
Christ.
C. Smith nodded in the girl’s direction. “You need to be the one taking her out of here,” he said, continuing in Spanish and pocketing the damn piece of paper. Not that he was going to need it. No way in hell.
“No,” Kid insisted. “I need to get patched up, go back to the house, see what I can find. These guys are after me, and I need to do something about it.”
All true, but Smith wasn’t buying it. The look on his face must have said as much.
“Okay,” Kid gave in, his voice lowering, even though he stuck with Spanish. “I need a break.” He glanced at the woman. “She’s . . . she’s—”
“Hot,” Smith supplied.
“Screw you,” Kid said, barely managing a grin, which quickly faded. “She’s engaged.”
“You told me that weeks ago.”
“Yeah, well, things happened
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